The Cart That Wouldn’t Quit
The day started like any other on set. Call time: too early. Location: about an hour from home, which in Pittsburgh terms means just long enough to require gas, caffeine, and a playlist to keep you awake in the gray morning fog. Day one of filming always comes with its own cocktail of nerves and adrenaline.
I was called up first thing. “Can you age this piece of wood?” Translation: take something fresh from the lumber yard and convince the camera it’s been nailed in place since before any of us were born. A brush, some pigments, a rag—that’s my magic. Turning new into ancient.
Pretty standard. Until it wasn’t.
Because that was also the day my cart—the one that’s been with me since the beginning—decided to reenact The Fast and the Furious. It launched itself off the back of the truck like it had a death wish. Paint scattering. Wheels bouncing down the stone path. My heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
And here’s the thing: that wasn’t its first brush with chaos. Not even close.
A Cart with History
My career as a “standby painter” (aka camera scenic) kicked off in 2008. One of my first gigs was: Love and Other Drugs with Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal—back when Jake was dating Taylor Swift and Pittsburgh was buzzing with rumors. I had a paint cart that rolled with me across those sets—through rain, snow, and endless days under hot lights—always carrying the brushes, paints, and tricks that keep a scenic artist alive.
Years later, I bought a new cart just as I was starting A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. I’ll never forget where I was when the offer came in: stepping off the train in Talkeetna, Alaska. The town was like a dream—Denali keeping watch, bush planes buzzing overhead, one street lined with climbers and artists who seemed to have all the time in the world.
That’s where my phone rang. A Tom Hanks movie. Did I want to be the on-set painter? (Spoiler: I said yes.) A few months later, on September 27, 2018, Tom Hanks himself sang me happy birthday—“Happy Birthday dear Jo-lene,” Dolly Parton emphasis and all. And yes, I’ll be bragging about that forever.
Through it all, the cart was there—taped back together, reconfigured, shoved into trucks not meant for its weight. Flat tires, broken handles, buckets lashed down with bungees. It’s survived falls, floods, and more spills than I could count. If film sets are chaos, the cart is survival on wheels.
What a Camera Scenic Does
People outside the industry often ask: What do you actually do on set?
The title is messy: standby painter, on-set scenic, camera scenic. I prefer the camera scenic—it’s the most accurate. We’re the last line of defense between the art department’s vision and what the camera captures.
Here’s the job in a nutshell:
Touch-ups: Chips, scratches, smudges—gone before the camera sees them.
Aging & distressing: Making something brand new look like it’s been lived in forever.
Continuity fixes: Making sure what you saw in the last shot matches the next.
Last-minute magic: Too shiny, too clean, too flat? I adjust so it reads under the lights.
It’s instinct, speed, and calm in the middle of chaos. Hours of waiting, then sprinting in seconds before “Action.” It’s a rush.
And the cart? That’s my sidekick. The Robin to my Batman. The trusty steed carrying every tool I might possibly need when painterly chaos decides to strike.
The Cart as Compass
But here’s the deal: the cart isn’t just a tool. It’s a metaphor.
Every time it breaks, I rebuild it. Every time it tips, I gather the pieces. Every time it scatters across a parking lot, I haul it back together. That cart is survival in motion—and it reminds me of myself.
Film sets are chaos. So is grief. So is trying to build a career out of art and instinct. I’ve been bent, taped together, rolling unevenly, and still—like the cart—I keep moving. That’s the alchemy: turning mess into meaning, panic into presence, chaos into beauty.
If the cart could talk, it would have better stories than I do.
Talkeetna and True North
That day in Talkeetna—stepping off the Alaska Railroad, lungs scrubbed clean by the northern air—I felt both lost and found. A tiny town at the edge of everything, where the road ended and bush pilots carried you deeper into wilderness.